


Face to face

by shittershutter



Category: Sons of Anarchy
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-15 21:01:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3461873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shittershutter/pseuds/shittershutter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chibs doesn’t consider himself a decent person on his best day, but being a good lover is sort of his forte. It is a reputation that takes decades to build.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Face to face

**Author's Note:**

> It's set during the earlier seasons when everything was still good and nothing hurt, not as much, at least. :)
> 
> Warning: implied past rape.
> 
> Warning 2: it's still unbetad. Sorry.

**“Can’t do it like that,” Chibs slurs, vowels tripping over consonants. “With him, I can’t.”**

**“What do you mean you can’t?” Tig burps, a bottle of hellish burning liquid squeezed tightly between his thighs. He takes a generous gulp. They are propped against the back of the couch that got turned over at some point, surrounded by partially conscious and scarcely dressed snoring bodies. They are the last two people standing. Or rather, sitting relatively upright.**

**“Always pegged you for a doggy style kind of guy,” Tig continues. “You know, throw ‘em down and mount ‘em.”**

**Chibs laughs, but he sounds kind of sad to himself. “Has to see my face when we fuck, does not work otherwise.”**

He and Juice, they fool around for some time, and Chibs does not push away the opportunity to pretend he’s just looking out for the boy. Then Juice starts to spend the night, and their kisses tip over the simple “thanks for the fuck, man” ones into something else entirely, something that is far more complicated and emotional for Chibs to dwell on. 

One morning Chibs steps into his own bathroom to find Juice in the shower -- he’s so hungover, he doesn’t even remember bringing the boy home the night before. So it’s a double surprise -- him being there and looking so delicious with his skin reddened from the heat, water cascading down his body.

It seems like a good and proper moment to get on with the real fucking, and Chibs is about to take it. Juice sighs happily into his mouth, all warm and relaxed, smelling of cheap soap and even cheaper aftershave. It makes Chibs vaguely uncomfortable how happy being there, at that moment, it makes him. He chases the feeling away, smiles into the kiss and pushes Juice around, pressing against him, reaching blindly for the cabinet to get the condoms out. 

He’s distracted with the foil for the moment, but when he turns his full attention back to Juice, the boy is completely unresponsive. His shoulders are locked up; the head is hanging low, fingers are digging into the tiles. His body is bracing itself against an invisible assault, and Chibs is not sure if the brain is involved in this at all. If Juice is breathing at the moment, it’s the shallowest tiniest breaths he’s letting out. It’s such an abrupt mood shift that Chibs nearly trips over it. 

He’s seen it before, he thinks, breathing heavily in and out to work his way through that dense, dirty silence that fills the air. 

Juice makes a few humorless jokes about his days behind bars through the years, and it becomes apparent that the concrete darkness took more from him than he was willing to give. 

Chibs sighs. He doesn’t consider himself a decent person on his best day, but he’s a good fuck, no false modesty there. He takes people to bed to have a good time, and if said people are limping a bit afterward, it’s with the dreamiest, happiest smiles on their faces. There’s nothing happy about the current situation, so he’s about to get them out of it. 

Chibs carefully turns Juice around, not looking him in the eye. It definitely calls for a conversation neither of them is ready for; he does his best to dodge that bullet for now like it was never fired. He lathers his hands generously with soap, humming to himself as if it was the plan all along. With his eyes fixed over Juice’s shoulder, he starts to rub the soap into his neck, his shoulders, his hands. He moves slowly, warming the skin under his palms, and when he’s on his knees, working on Juice’s calves, he finally feels a hand on his shoulder, alive and hot. 

And Juice is back, just like that, with a soft smile on his lips. 

**“I’d fuck him anyway. Push the trauma out of him with the power of my giant dick,” Tig notes.**

They do get to the fucking, sometime later. Chibs is good with logistics and making shit work, after all. It’s a challenge he gladly accepts. 

The good old fuck in front of a bathroom mirror seems to be a logical step in that direction, so Chibs takes it for them both, inspired by all the European fancy porn shit Layla got him into, but life ends up not imitating art. It is downright mocking it, even though Juice seems to be on board with it at first, all dirty smiles and breathy moans. But as they properly go into it, he's suddenly tense all over, eyes constantly looking for his partner in the mirror, panicked and sad, darkness coming through the haunted depth of them. Chibs honestly does his share of good fucking, but he can’t come, not when Juice’s soft in his hand, fingers digging into his hip on the wrong side of painful. He curses under his breath then, pulling out, sucking the boy off and letting him return the favor. The whole situation gets locked up in the grand mausoleum of shit they don’t talk about, and that’s it. 

“Could be the position, then,” Layla muses, her lingerie-clad posse of whores nods enthusiastically behind her. “You don’t have to bend over to empower him."

Chibs is so blindsided by the fact that it's obviously Juice she's talking about all of sudden, not some abstract lover of unspecified sex they've been vaguely discussing for some time now, that he doesn't have an answering remark at all, just a sharp little nod she immediately returns before he can turn and walk away. 

He goes back into an observation mode, touching Juice a lot, in private and in public, cataloging his reactions when they watch porn together: what makes him hot, what makes him go distant, picking distractedly at the bed sheet, looking down. 

When he has enough data, he spreads himself on the bed, sober and determined. “Ride me, boy,” he tells Juice when he comes into the bedroom, hot with summer wind and smelling of whatever green stuff he got his hands on earlier. 

Juice looks down at him, expression unreadable for a beat or two. Then he starts to smile, slow, but so hopeful and a little dirty that it makes that iron grip around Chibs’ heart unclench, warmth flooding his chest. 

A bottle of lube is placed strategically next to an ashtray, so each time Chibs moves his hand to shake off the ash, Juice’s eyes follow, his mouth slightly opened. He sheds his clothes as he moves closer to the bed, and he’s naked when he straddles Chibs, unfinished beer in his hand. 

Chibs pushes himself up to lick off the beer that escaped that mouth off the boy’s jaw and chest. When he reaches his lips, he whispers “Come on,” against them. This time, when Juice shivers it’s a good kind of shiver -- he can tell. 

Juice crouches above him, working himself open slowly. He applies a generous amount of lube -- so he likes it slick and smooth, no “hurts so good” shit. The lube drips down his thighs a little, glittering, and there is nothing Chibs wants more than to catch it with the pads of his fingers and rub it into the smooth skin, but he forces himself stay motionless. 

He only allows himself to mouth along the veins running down the shaven sides of Juice’s head, tiny new hairs tickling his lips. 

Finally, Juice grabs his dick, his movement sure and exact as he slicks it up and takes it in with a deep sigh. Or maybe it’s Chibs who groans and hisses as that tight little ass grabs and squeezes him so tightly.

Juice is quiet at first, fingers digging painfully into Chibs’ chest for support, his fingertips ghosting over the collarbones. His brow is furrowed as he concentrates on the sensations, but he does not close his eyes. Chibs has no choice but to stare back at him, into the enveloping darkness. It feels like he has no right to deny the boy that intimacy. 

Juice moves his hips around, looking for a better angle. Chibs pushes up slightly -- can’t really help himself -- and Juice whimpers when they find it together. 

He grabs Chibs’ hands then, feverish, trembling a little, and slides them up his body, touching himself with them, showing Chibs where and how he wants to be touched. He drags them up his chest, squeezing his pecs, back to his stomach and waist to leave them on his lower back. The lower back thing he likes a lot, Chibs knows, the rubbing and simply having a warm hand pressed there, as an anchor and as a promise of more to come. 

They speed up after some time of quiet rocking against each other, Juice’s body flushed and taut, but in a right way this time. Chibs grabs his hips and starts pushing up, harder and harder, the boy’s dick jumping between their stomachs with each move. He licks his palm and closes his hand around it. 

Juice groans -- Chibs chuckles at that and brings his mouth to the boy’s. The kiss burns. It’s uncoordinated, all wet lips and scorching breaths with aggressive teeth and small moans. 

When Juice comes, it’s hard. The tension from his body unwinds, spasming through the both of them, and Chibs strokes him through it until he’s too sensitive, until he whimpers pitifully into his neck. He grabs those slim hips hard and fucks into the boy faster and faster through his old bones protesting, Juice’s mouth in his hair. 

They sit together afterward, still joined, savoring the sticky mess of it, breathing together. 

“I forgot how I fucking loved it, man” Juice whispers, surprised and sad a bit. 

They look each other in the eyes then, but it’s not awkward or threatening. Juice presses his lips to that place where the edge of Chibs’ facial scar smudges into the shell of his ear. 

Down there, on the gut level, it feels suspiciously like “thank you”.

**Chibs rubs the same spot with his fingers absently, lost in a memory that is already desaturated by many similar ones. He notices that Tig scribbles something down his forearm.**

**“... whuh?”**

**“My emergency phone number,” Tig answers, nodding enthusiastically. “Next time you fuck, you call me. I wanna watch.”**

**Chibs laughs at that, all loud and drunk. One of the bodies scattered around them mutters something at that.**

**“Come on, it’s not gay if I don’t join in”.**

**“Fuck you, Tiggy,” Chibs snorts affectionately, pressing the man and his bottle against his side.**

**“Yeah, babes, maybe next time,” Tig agrees, fitting himself against Chibs’ ribcage.**

**They sit like this in a comfortably intoxicated silence, too experienced to pass out and too shitfaced to function productively, watching the sky lighten, and it’s poetic to them as it can be.**


End file.
